A/N: SWEET. FUCKING. JESUS. It took me FOREVER to type up this long piece of shit. Good God. Just. Just take it. Just freaking take it, I don't have time for a legit A/N I'm going to see The Avengers in five minutes and asdffjaiwererawr

Word Count: 5,200+ or some crazy shit

Ship(s): John/Sherlock, small implications of Mycroft/Lestrade

Warning(s): Really, really crazy amounts of inappropriate content, which is sad, because I wrote this at school. BASICALLY: nudity, oral sex, cussing, all that jazz. Also this is basically crack so if they're OOC it was semi-intentional hopefully it's not too bad I don't know sorry for all the cussing I really have to leave like now help me

Personal Space and Other Useless Concepts

The first time it happened, John reacted the same way any man would. He screamed, fell over, and pulled a towel down to cover his important bits. Because that's what people do when their crazy flat mates yank the shower curtain open.

"Sherlock, what the fuck?" John scrambled to simultaneously more fully cover himself and to get to his feet from the slippery shower floor. Sherlock just cast John a flat, irritated look.

"You are taking too long. We need to go to the Yard; double homicide, John!" Sherlock then proceeded to actually reach into the shower and pull John out by the arm. It was all John could do t keep the sopping towel in place around his waist, barely managing the step over the side of the tub.

"Sh-Sherlock! There's still soap in my hair!" John said, then cursed himself. As if that was the biggest problem. He tried again, blushing furiously: "You can't just step into another man's shower and—"

Sherlock grabbed a bowl, filled it with water, and dumped it on John's head.

John was startled to the point that he very nearly dropped the towel, staring drop jawed; Sherlock grinned. "See?" he said. "No more soap." And, because he could do little else, John threw his head back and laughed like a mad man.

The next time it happened, John took it rather well, if he did say so himself.

As soon as the curtain flew open John yanked a towel down and, instead of covering himself, slapped Sherlock across the face with it.

Sherlock stood there in numb shock, damp towel still slopped over his head, as John stepped out around him. John smirked and pulled a dry towel off the rack, using it to dry off his hair before wrapping it around his waist. "So," he said. "What's the hurry this time?"

Still donning a towel over his face, Sherlock turned stiffly to face John. "Girlfriend," he said.

"What?"

"Your girlfriend. Helen or something. The boring one. She's downstairs."

"Ah."

John had a bit of trouble explaining the incident to Hannah (her name was Hannah, not Helen), who'd heard the shower curtain open and jumped to all the right conclusions, but that was OK. She really was quite boring.

The third time it happened was much worse, because John wasn't in the shower. He was in his room, behind a door he thought was locked, doing things that no roommate should ever witness. Ever. But Sherlock did witness. In fact, when he walked in he not only witnessed but he lingered, stood in the doorway with raised eyebrows and an almost quizzical expression on his face until John yanked his pants on and physically pushed him out the door. He even remained on the other side once the door had been slammed in his face, spouting inquiry.

"How often do you do that, John?"

"Do you always do it on the bed?"

"Without pants?"

"Are you coming out soon, John?"

"Why are you so embarrassed? It's nothing I haven't seen before."

"Do you get erections often?"

John, once fully clothed, burst out of the room and stormed straight out of the apartment, red faced. After about six confused, vaguely apologetic text messages, however, he returned. He questioned his sanity but, God help him, he returned.

After a while, John got used to this behavior. For a while, he took to ignoring it and hoping it would go away like a misbehaving canine hungry for attention; eventually, John just stopped being surprised when the behavior continued. There was no point to it.

Around once a week Sherlock would burst into the bathroom (regardless of whether or not it was locked), sometimes while John was still showering, sometimes while he was getting dressed or shaving his face. He was almost never clothed. John would just roll his eyes and carry on with whatever he was doing, no longer bothering to cover himself. He never checked whether or not Sherlock was looking.

Sherlock never bothered to knock before wandering into John's room, either, sometimes even following John in after a shower or a long case to blab at him while he changed. More surprising, Sherlock had no problems stripping himself while he was at it, as he slept in boxers, tossing his dirty clothes to the corner of John's room and carrying on with his talking. He wasn't the type to waste time, after all. John got used to that, too. They had quite a few philosophical discussions standing about in nothing but pants, actually.

John did continue to cover himself when Sherlock wandered in on certain… extracurricular activities, but he no longer screamed at him and (perhaps more concerning) he neglected to go flaccid at the interruption. In fact, if he were to be honest with himself, he got a bit bothered by Sherlock's invasive questions on the matter, ad not in the negative way either. John just sighed, pulled a blanket over himself, and asked if he had time to finish before they left for the adventure of the week. They almost always did, and Sherlock was almost always waiting outside the door afterwards, but John stopped thinking about that, too.

In fact, it got to the point where John didn't second guess it at all. He forgot it was weird. That it wasn't normal to feel completely comfortable about asking your best mate to undo the buttons on your shirt when your fingers were too numb or have your roommate sit on the edge of the tub and chit-chat about dead bodies while you had a bubble-bath. It was just something they did and, soon, it went both ways. John throwing Sherlock's shower open to yell at him about setting his jumper on fire or wandering into Sherlock's room uninvited to discuss cases. It was everyday 221B behavior and John thought nothing of it.

So he wasn't thinking about it when he had Greg over for a Star Trek marathon, either. Originally it had been a John-and-Sherlock-only thing (Sherlock had an unhealthy adoration for Spock, though he would not admit this) but Greg had been meaning to watch it for a while and, after a fair amount of nagging, Sherlock agreed to let the DI come along just this once. Gregory, toting a box of beer and feeling very much like One of the Gang, was grinning from ear to ear when John opened the door for him. John, donned in the usual jeans-and-ridiculous-jumper combo, smiled back.

"Greg! Hey, you're early – come in, come in, though, take a seat. I was just making popcorn." John slapped Gregory welcomingly before he shuffled out of the doorway and towards the kitchen, microwave beckoning. "Make yourself comfortable."

Greg hesitated for a moment before choosing a recliner at random. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked, settling into the plush leather seat. John strolled into the living room, toting a massive bowl of popcorn.

"Oh, he's still in the shower. You're early, like I said." John sat the bowl on Greg's lap. "I'll go get him," said John, jabbing his finger over his shoulder demonstratively. Greg nodded and watched John walk over to the bathroom door.

And open it. Which, okay, was a little weird, but Greg hadn't had a flat mate in a while so maybe

Greg nearly dropped the bowl of popcorn when he heard the shower curtain slide open.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the detective inspector flipping a shit in the other room, Sherlock wiped the suds aback away from his eyes to peer at John. "Oh, Lestrade showed, then?" he asked. Then, snarkily, "You're looking at my rear, John."

"You have really narrow hips," John replied, nonchalant. He rolled his shoulders back and stepped away, closing the curtain back. "Hurry up or we're starting without you."

"You wouldn't." Sherlock shoved a hand around the curtain, wiggling his fingers. "Hand me a towel, would you?"

John did, then headed back to the living room. Greg was looking pointedly in the opposite direction, red faced. John wondered if maybe Sherlock left gay porn in the DVD player again (he insisted it was vital for thinking like Jim Moriarty or something but John suspected Sherlock just liked mentally scarring him) but it was empty when he popped it open to put in Star Trek. Maybe he's sexting Mycroft, John thought, smirking, then wondered where on Earth that thought had come from.

John settled into his own recliner, settling against the familiar Union Jack pillow. "Sherlock will be out soon," he said. "Have you watched this show before?"

"U-Uh… no." Lestrade looked at him, bewildered. Was John serious? Did he not realize…? He smiled, lopsided. "No, I haven't," he said, and he thought maybe he misunderstood. Maybe he mistook the things he heard.

Sherlock bumbled out to the living room after a few minutes of mindless rugby chatter and small talk, donned in a pair of blue sweatpants that barely fit over his knees and a t-shirt several sizes too big for him. It was strange for Greg, seeing the detective looking so casual – so bloody human – but John didn't look surprised.

"You're wearing my clothes again," John noted. He didn't look surprised about that, either. Greg quickly shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth to trap the innuendos gathering within.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was this or the sheet. I'd hate to make Lestrade uncomfortable." Greg choked, immediately regretting the popcorn. He'd heard stories about the sheet. Many, many stories. John rolled his eyes and looked at Greg, smirking.

"Mister pompous over there doesn't own anything even remotely cozy. He goes on road trips in three piece suits."

Greg relaxed marginally. "You're telling me! We had a case in forty degree weather last year and he showed up in that giant coat of his. Didn't even take off that damn scarf."

"Sweating is for the weak of mind," Sherlock said sternly, "and you're in my seat. Up."

With Sherlock looming over him Greg very nearly did get up, pride or no pride, but John barked. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock cast John a slow, dry look. For a moment, Greg thought Sherlock might hit the doctor. But Sherlock just sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Bit not good?"

"Bit not good," John agreed. "Sit on the couch."

"The couch is insufficient, John! The view is far superior from the chairs. We watched Brokeback Mountain on the couch, I remember, and I'm almost certain I missed something important."

"Well, Gregory is the guest and I'm not sitting on the couch, either."

"Well shove over, then."

Gregory stared in blatant disbelief, unable to figure what surprised him more, Sherlock listening to instructions or that both John and Sherlock managed to fit into that chair together.

I'm not his boyfriend. John's voice echoed in the back of Greg's mind. Greg didn't believe him.

They watched Star Trek in relative, comfortable silence for a while, quiet broken only by Sherlock's occasional comments on unrealistic technology and plot inconsistencies (and occasionally mouthing the words to Spock's lines, but no one dared mention that), Greg asking questions on bits he didn't understand, or John muttering "gay" under his breath every time Spock and Kirk were in a scene together. By the end of the first episode each man had a drink in one hand (a beer for Greg and John, Sherlock some odd energy drink) and were feeling almost companionable.

At some point, however, when Greg stood to go for a second beer, Sherlock peered down at John and said, "Your pants are unbuttoned, you know."

"Ahw, what?" John groaned and fumbled the zipper of his jeans, struggling to do so one-handed without spilling his beer. Greg considered making a barn door comment, only too be cut off by Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and said, "I got it."

Greg looked on in stunned silence as Sherlock handed John his energy drink and swooped in, zipping John's jeans and, after a bit of tugging at the seams, clasping the button. John, unperturbed, raised his beer. "Thanks, 'Lock."

"Cheers." Sherlock snatched his drink back and took a swig. John rolled his eyes. Greg… more or less imploded.

"Alright, now it's just getting ridiculous! Are you two shagging or aren't you? Because I walked in here and from what I've seen, the only way you two could be more gay for each other was if you two were literally on that couch having sex with each other! Fucking homo explosion over here, I swear to God!"

Sherlock stared. John dropped his beer. On the screen, the Enterprise warped through space.

Finally, finally, Greg cleared his throat. "Uh. Sorry. That was… impolite of me."

"Greg… what…" John appeared to have short-circuited, flailing his hands in front of him and looking back and forth between Greg and Sherlock in a frantic, panicked manner. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed a comforting hand through John's hair, then turned to give the DI a look.

"Lestrade, your assumptions are far out of bounds. Despite the fact that we are comfortable with each other and have little to no problems with physical exposure, I assure you we are not sexually involved with one another," Sherlock said.

"I'm not gay," John said, far less collectively. "I'm not gay. I'm straight. I like ladies. I'm just comfortable with my body."

"And mine," Sherlock said. John nodded as if to say 'obviously.'

Greg cleared his throat; clearly this was a lost cause. Sherlock looked up at Greg then. "But while we're on the topic of raging homosexual behavior—" Sherlock flashed a mocking smile. "—are you shagging my brother?"

Gregory's eyes blew wide. "Fuck, what?"

John snorted. "Called it."

And Gregory did not come to Star Trek again after that. Sherlock was glad; pants really were a naissance.

John tried not to worry about it, he really did. But Gregory's words stuck in his mind, echoing incessantly. Homo explosion, I swear to God. He wondered if this was how that Darren Criss guy felt like on a regular basis, remembered that he wasn't supposed to like Glee, and stomped the thought out.

It was these thoughts that Sherlock interrupted as he breezed into the room. "I'm bored and – oh, are you masturbating?"

John sighed and pulled his hand out of his pants. "I was going to, but I'm not feeling it."

"Pity. Maybe you're getting old. Make room."

Knowing what was coming John rolled to the opposite side edge of the bed to somewhat-successfully dodge Sherlock's bedbound belly-flop. Sherlock still managed to end up with an arm slung over John's shoulders before burying his face in a pillow. John glanced at Sherlock's arm and tired to feel bothered by the intimacy. All this effort accomplished was giving him a headache, though.

"You're thinking again," Sherlock said, voice muffled by the pillow. He squeezed John's side. "What are you thinking?"

"I dunno." John sighed and laced his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pausing to slide down the nape of his neck. Sherlock hummed appreciatively. "I don't know," he repeated, more slowly, "do you ever think we're too close?"

Sherlock's head popped up immediately and he propped himself up on the elbow not occupied around John's middle. He looked surprised. John's hand fell to rest on Sherlock's forearm as he spoe. "Too close? I thought you appreciated the familiarity, John," said Sherlock.

"No, no…" John sighed heavily, releasing his grip on Sherlock's arm to cross his arms behind his head. "That's not it. I just mean… I mean… the shower thing? And sharing a chair? Not to mention the masturbation questions. I don't' know."

"Ah." Sherlock sneered, but the expression was strained. "Is this about what Lestrade said the other day?" John bit his lip, guilty as charged. Sherlock peered at him. "I'm surprised at you, John. I thought you were a liberal thinker."

"What? No – no! I am. I just…" John waned. Sherlock sighed.

"John, two men can be comfortable around one another without being in a homosexual relationship." Sherlock's frown softened a bit when John's eyebrows scrunched. "I should know; I've done extensive research on the topic. And if anything, the fact that we're so uninhibited with one another just shows that we aren't sexually attracted to each other. There's no tension there." Even as Sherlock said this his fingers traced over John's chest; John squared his shoulders as the hand came to rest at the base of his neck. Sherlock sighed. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah. No. I mean – yeah." John laughed, abet a bit nervously peering up at Sherlock. When Sherlock grinned at him John found it easy to grin back. "Yeah," he repeated. "You're probably right. I mean, of course you are – I'm straight."

"And I'm asexual," Sherlock said, sounding relieved by this revelation.

"Totally incompatible, you and I."

"Absolutely."

And then John couldn't reply anymore because Sherlock's lips were on his and they were soft and John found himself kissing back with more than a little enthusiasm, arms flinging themselves around Sherlock's neck. A deep, rumbling noise built in the back of Sherlock's throat, reverberating down John's throat, and a loud moan echoed through John's ears, though he couldn't say whose mouth it had escaped from.

Either way the noise brought John back to Earth and he pushed Sherlock away, gasping. "What the shit?"

Sherlock's face was flushed and though his expression was carefully blank his pupils were blown wide. "I could ask you the same thing!"

"What?" John cried. "You started it!"

"No I didn't!"

Their noses knocked together before they twisted into a better position, lips pressing flush together before John opened his mouth to admit Sherlock's tongue. It was definitely John who moaned this time as Sherlock's tongue swiped across his teeth. John groaned and slid his hands through Sherlock's hair and—

"John!" Sherlock cried, jerking away from the kiss. There was no disguise this time, full fledged, flustered disbelief painting his features. "What are you doing?"

"What!" John gawped, face scarlet. "You kissed me!"

"No I didn't! You kissed me."

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock!"

"Oh, and I am? I think you have the two of us confused."

The two men stared at each other then, disbelieving. John found it suddenly very hard to look Sherlock in the eye, face going beet red. Sherlock slowly shifted from anxious to quizzical, peering at John lie a mystery unsolved. The awkward silence only lasted about a minute, but to John it felt like eons.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"You have an erection," he said.

John's eyes widened and he looked down at himself. Well, damn. "Uh… left over from earlier?" he reasoned hopefully.

Sherlock snorted. "Unlikely. It is clear who the culprit here is, John."

John's ears were on fire, accompanied by most of his head. It was a wonder he didn't explode. "W-Well! Well…" John hesitated and then, because boundaries were not something heavily established between them, he reached down between Sherlock's legs and he checked. "Aha!" he cried. "You do, too! You've proven nothing!" Sherlock's eyes blew wide, looking both humiliated and impressed.

"Do I really?"

Sherlock's mouth was rough against his but his lips were velvet soft. John wasn't sure when he'd cupped the side of Sherlock's face, or when Sherlock had gripped John's shoulders, or why it felt so good when Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip. Maybe he should have been more concerned with his other hand, though, as it was still cupping Sherlock's bulge. Or that Sherlock was grinding against his palm. Or that it was kind of awesome.

Oh.

Sherlock tore away with a jolt, looking almost terrified, but he apparently could not control the moan that he released at the break of pressure despite his apparent bewilderment. John yanked both his hands off of Sherlock's body and clasped them at his chest, heart pounding in his ears.

"What…" John cleared his throat. "What was that?"

Homo explosion, the little Greg in his head answered.

Sherlock appeared incapable of speech himself. He crawled in numb silence to the opposite edge of the bed, panting all the while. Finally, after a long moment of staring down at himself, he managed, "Definitely you this time, John. I was trying to recall the last time I had a physical reaction to sexual stimuli at the time, I would not have moved."

I was thinking about your dick, John thought, but did not say; despite the fact that he had been groping said piece of anatomy just moments before, talking about it just seemed indecent. John swallowed. He could still taste Sherlock in his mouth, lingering there.

Fuck. So maybe it had been him.

But then Sherlock looked at him and said, "I might not be quite as adverse to sex as I hypothesized." And John said, "Oh." And, eventually, Sherlock slid off the bed and walked, lopsided, out of the room, because they just didn't do awkward silence.

The tension lasted for nearly a week, and it was making everybody feel really uncomfortable.

Sally Donovan was the first victim of the "Sexual Doom Cloud" (a term coined by Lestrade, and proudly), as she was the first to greet them the next day at the latest crime scene. She barely got past her usual "Hey, freak…" when she had to do a double take. Sherlock was standing pointedly as far away from John as possible without it being ridiculous, and John looked like a freaking tomato every time he so much glanced in the detective's direction. Which was weird, because as far as she could tell the two were usually right in each other's space, staring into each other's eyes, having telepathy sex or something. Somehow, this made her more uncomfortable than the usual.

Anderson was quick to follow, though extremely slow to catch on until he spotted Sherlock actually full-on staring at John as the doctor bent to inspect the corpse-of-the-day. And not at his face, either. As if the tension might actually be palpable Anderson proceeded to choke on it, coughing and sputtering incoherently until John gently suggested that maybe he should go to the hospital.

Lestrade, humiliated by his display the previous weekend, did his best to ignore it, only to end up sharing an unfortunate taxi with them. A very long, traffic inhibited taxi. And they stuck him in the middle. Between them. There was nothing more to say on the matter except that Lestrade would be taking a week of leave to recover.

Molly got the worst of it, poor dear, what with her womanly intuition and all. Well, that, and Sherlock loved to spout off all kinds of flamboyant, brilliant nonsense in the morgue and Captain Obvious Watson managed to observe this for all of two seconds before having to cross his legs.

Mrs. Hudson, wise woman that she was, took one step into 221B before throwing her hands up, turning on her heel, and slamming the door behind her. Her heart just couldn't take that sort of thing anymore.

The next time it happened, John wasn't thinking.

Against his better judgment he'd allowed Sarah to set him up on a blind date with her friend. Her name had been Pamela and she had all the sexual appear of a bale of hay. It wasn't that she was unattractive or even unintelligent by any means. She just didn't do it for John. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make himself care about anything she was doing, even when that something she was doing involved trying to feel him up in the back of a taxi. John found himself having his very first out of body experience, which involved capturing her hand, pulling it away from his crotch, patting her shoulder, and telling her Not Tonight. He hadn't even bothered to get her number.

John came home fuming, frustrated in more ways than one, and in dire need of a shower.

He really couldn't be blamed for it. It was habit now, a Baker Street tradition of sorts, and John's only thought process was that he felt really, really unsettled and wanted the shower as soon as possible. It was only natural that he swooped into the bathroom without knocking, shouted, "'Lock!" and popped his head in inside the curtain to grin sarcastically at the man inside. "Guess who's blind date went fucking horrible?"

Sherlock yelped, the nerve of him, and very nearly fell on his butt in his scramble to cover his important bits. Bits that, after a moment, John realized had been quite busy a few moments before.

"Oh," John said. "I thought. I mean I thought, that you didn't do… that."

Sherlock grimaced. He didn't have a towel and now suffered through the use of only his hands for cover (wildly insufficient). "I don't," Sherlock hissed, humiliation evident in his tone. "This is an… anomaly."

"Ah." John's cheeks flushed scarlet, but he didn't move. "Well, uh, sorry for interrupting you there, but I'm going to need a shower soon. I'm bloody exhausted."

Sherlock frowned a little. Then, "You're staring."

Oh. John flushed – he was staring, blatantly so, eyes zeroed in on Sherlock's bare form, on the shower water running between his fingers, spilling down his thighs, dripping along his narrow hips and tracing long, bony legs. He was less surprised than he should have been to find that he couldn't look away.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to regain his composure (and his indifference) and let his hands drop to his sides. John, startled by the sudden uninhibited view, had his gaze thrown upwards to Sherlock's face. The man in question was frowning deeply.

"Right, now," said Sherlock. "This is your fault."

John's mouth was parched. "Is it?"

"Yes. You've put all numbers of unnecessary connotations to our previous bodily comfort and now I cannot get you out of my head. I have pornographic imagery in the mind palace, John." Sherlock pointed (quite dramatically) to his nether region. "This is your fault," he repeated, and he gave John an expectant look. John swallowed hard.

"Um… okay. And you want me to do… what, exactly?"

Sherlock blinked. "Fix it."

John guffawed, but Sherlock looked dead serious. Well, as dead serious as a man could be with water dripping down his nose. John's eyebrows flew skyward. "What! Why should I?"

Sherlock gave John a long suffering look before leaning back against the shower wall, spreading his legs, and announcing, "Because it is your duty, Captain."

John did the only sensible thing.

He fixed it.

"Considering all accumulated data, it is at least ninety-seven percent certain that I have feelings for you that extent past platonic friendship."

John rolled his head around languidly to peer up at Sherlock. They were slouched together on the shower floor, Sherlock just as nude as he'd began (very) and staring at his hand (no longer sticky), John wearing only a t-shirt (plastered to his skin) and a pair of crumpled boxer shorts (wet, pulled down to his ankles), and both of them floating in post-coital bliss and the numb shock of getting off with one's closest friend.

"You're an idiot," John said. Sherlock made a face but John curled his arm around his waist, pulling him closer. He twisted to kiss Sherlock's neck, smiling. "And thank you, I think."

"Don't thank me," Sherlock grumbled, relaxing in John's grasp. "You're a menace."

"Hey! Careful what you call the guy who still has the taste of your spunk in his mouth, okay?" John still couldn't quite comprehend that he'd done that, either, or even that he'd figured out how. He waited for it to bother him, and would have been kept waiting until the end of days had Sherlock not kissed his neck, erasing the thought from his mind. John smiled. "So," he said, "What now?"

"Now?" Sherlock hummed. "Well, I could go for some tea. Earl gray would be nice."

John snorted. "I meant us, moron."

"Ah. Of course." Sherlock looked almost smug for a moment before looking bored again. "This conversation. Must we have it? I really would like some tea."

"I mean," John said, lowering his voice, "that if I see you doing this with anybody else I'll punch you in the gizzard." John tightened his grip – was that right? Must have been, because Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised.

"Oh." Sherlock smiled blankly. "I don't have a gizzard, John. I am not a bird of prey." John rolled his eyes, waited; Sherlock sighed and pressed his nose to John's temple. "You mean that you want this to continue exclusively."

John smiled. That was definitely right. "Yes."

"For how long?"

John blinked, because what kind of question was that? Sherlock snorted.

"I'll give you a hint, John," he whispered. "The correct answer is 'indefinitely.'"

But John said, "Forever," and that was alright too.

The next morning Mrs. Hudson came over with a platter of Congratulations cookies, a cheerful, "Praise the merciful lord that's finally over!" and a quick exit.

Sherlock was smug. John was crimson. They'd been quite a bit louder than they'd originally thought. But, on a completely irrelevant note: the cookies? Delicious.

I can't write endings i don't care please review AVENGERS AWAYYyYyyasdfjkl